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“Do you like Shakira?” asks Naisha while we are walking down a sandy road leading to the village of Jitpur Phedi. She looks at the headphones loosely hanging around my neck. “I guess she is all right. Not my favorite though.” “But it’s good music to dance to” she says and spins around playfully, causing her school uniform skirt to flare out. “That’s true.” “What are you listening to?” “You can listen to it if you want.” I hand her my headphones and press play. I look at her from the corner of my eyes just to see a slight displeasure on her face. Before I could ask how she likes it, she stops in front of a mud house. “This is where I live. You can talk to my mother, grandmother and sisters if you want.” We walk to the porch, where three generations of women sit in the shadow, their hands still covered with dirt from the work on the fields. A young girl holds a few days old baby on her lap. After greeting them I explain that I'd like to interview them for my university thesis. I wait for Naisha to translate while I look at the young mother. She looks awfully pale. An old woman comes out from the house, hands a jar of homemade beer to the mother and takes the baby while she drinks. She starts massaging the baby’s head which looks like soft playdough under her fingers. She must have noticed my discomfort as she says something in Nepalese to Naisha. “She says that this will make him a brave fighter.” I nod and try to move more into the shadow of the porch. From the house I get a whiff of dal bhat, a local lentil curry cooked over open fire. “Do you want to stay for lunch? We’re gonna have meat today” asks Naisha, thinking that she can arouse my interest with the meat. I learn that the family butchered their only buffalo a few days ago to celebrate the birth of a baby boy. My eyes keep circling back to the baby and his head. Like a softball leaking air, I think. I accept the invitation and join the women in the dark, smoky kitchen. My eyes immediately tear up, but the mud floor feels cold like fine silk and the curry is delicious. We eat in silence and fast. The women still have long hours of daylight to work on the fields. We step out to the scorching sun and suddenly all I want is to go back to my homestay and lie down in my cool bed. “I think we are finished for today.” I tell Naisha. “Tomorrow we can visit the rest of the families. Shall I meet you at school?” “I won’t go to school tomorrow. My mother said that I should help out on the fields until we buy another buffalo and we can sell its milk again.” I don’t see Naisha until weeks later, on my last day in Jitpur. As I walk my usual route to the village I see her fragile shape down the road, carrying a basket half of her size on her head, loaded with some sort of leafy vegetables. Even her bright red, drapey scarf seems to weigh down on her heavily. If I keep my pace I can catch up to her in no time, but instead I slow down and start to fiddle with my tangled headphones. When I look up again I only see the empty road in front of me. I put the headphones in my ear, press play and start to walk slowly in the opposite direction.